Sa mare la crida;
Son pare no vol ...
And the dog joined in this children's hymn of adoration to Diana's glory, with barks that filled the neighborhood with chills.
The Rector could think of nothing but the boat. Everything had been fixed for the fifteenth, even the matter of the curate, who would go and give her a dash of holy water in the middle of the afternoon. Everything, except one thing, futro! And that had occurred to him that very moment! Of course! She never had been named ...! Well, what shall we call her? This unexpected and exciting problem set the whole group a-talking. Even Tonet laid his mandolin down on the ground and seemed to be meditating deeply. He, at any rate, came out with the first suggestion: "Spit-Fire"! Now, what do you say to that!
The Rector's corpulent agreeableness saw nothing wrong with that name. Spit-Fire! What pride it would be for him to command a boat that, faithful to such a christening, would go saucily crashing through the storms with the untamed arrogance of a Portuguese! It was the women who objected. Spit-Fire! Nonsense! Who ever heard of a fish-boat spitting fire! That would make her the joke of all the Cabañal. No, siñá Tona had the right idea—"Fleet-Foot," the name of old Pascualo's boat, the one he had died in, and that, later on, had been the home of all the family. But now it was the men's turn to shout something down. No, that would bring bad luck, as the fate of Fleet-Foot herself had shown. Dolores had a good one. Why not "Rose of the Sea" ... a pretty name ... as pretty as she was, and in fine taste.... But the Rector observed that that name was on a boat already.... Too bad, too.... It was a beauty! Roseta, who had pouted in disdain at every suggestion thus far, finally came out with her own proposal. She had thought of it at home, the evening before, on looking at a picture that came in a package of tobacco from Gibraltar. She thought the name looked so pretty! It was printed in colors around the trademark on the box—a girl in dancing costume, with roses red as tomatoes on the little white skirt and a bunch of flowers in her hand, as bright and stiff as radishes! Flor de mayo! The boat should be called "Mayflower!"
Recristo! The Rector rubbed his hands in glee. Of course, just the thing, just the thing! Think a moment! "Flor de mayo"—the famous brand of Gibraltar! Well, the boat was built of tobacco, you might say. Most of the money in her had come from smuggling those very rolls that showed the gay dancer in the bright colors! Roseta was right! Flor de mayo! Flor de mayo!
The name pleased everybody, awakening in those sluggish imaginations a thrill of poetry and romance. They found something mysterious and attractive in the name, without suspecting the charm attached to it by that historic boat which carried the Puritans to the new world and marked the birth of the great republic of the West!... The Rector could not contain his joy. Roseta had the brains for you! Let's have dinner on that, ladies and gentlemen! And we'll have a real toast afterward ... to Flor de mayo!
The frying-pan was lifted from the stove and carried into the house, and the whole family rose to follow—significant happenings that did not escape the watchful eyes of little Pascualet. He deserted his orphéon of tiny choristers. The monotone of la lluna la pruna came to an end, and peace settled over the moon-lit country-side.
It was not long before the whole Cabañal, with that gift for rapid perception of important things that little places have, was aware that the Rector's new boat was to be christened Flor de mayo. And when, the evening before the blessing of the vessel, she was dragged down to the water's edge in front of the casa del bòus, the beautiful mysterious name could be read on the inside of her stern sheets, painted in letters of fetching blue.
The next afternoon, the cabin section of the Cabañal was in festive mood. Occasions like that were few indeed! Standing god-father in the baptismal rites was "Señor Mariano el Callao," no less a stingy old fat-purse, granted, but with enough heart in him to shell out a penny or two for a nephew like that on a day like that. Sweets a-plenty were to be passed around on the shore, with barrels of drinks. Barrels! Besides, that Rector boy knew how to do things well. He took the crew he had engaged for the first trip and went off to the church to escort don Santiago, the curate, to the beach. The priest welcomed him with one of those smiles he kept for his very best parishioners only. "What! Ready so soon? Well, son, won't you just run around and tell the sacristan to get the water and the hyssop ready! I'll just get into my cassock, and be with you in a jiffy...." "Not quite so fast, don Santiago!" observed the Rector. "Not quite so fast! You ought to see this is not an occasion for any cassock business, or stuff like that. Your cope, father, your cope, and the best you've got, see? You don't launch a boat like this every other day. Never mind about the money! I'll pay what's right!" The good priest smiled. "Very well ... the cope isn't just the thing, but cope it is, if you say so.... We're ready to accommodate good members of our flock, who know how to appreciate favors."
And they started back from the rectory, the sacristan in front with the hyssop and the holy vessel; then the curate surrounded by his guard of honor, the captain and his men. In one hand don Santiago was carrying his book of prayers, in the other the train of his old but sumptuous cope, to keep it out of the mud. The handsome robe was of a white somewhat yellowed with age; and the heavy gold borders had tarnished green, while the padding over the lining peeped through in places where the outer cloth had been worn thin.